


Healing

by filzmonster



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: A Conjuring of Light, A Darker Shade of Magic - Freeform, A Gathering of Shadows, F/M, Gen, I just want my baby to be happy, M/M, Spoilers, what even is quality writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 23:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10230800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filzmonster/pseuds/filzmonster
Summary: There’s a wound in Kell’s chest where the magic used to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck everything. I just want Kell to be happy.

There’s a wound in Kell’s chest where the magic used to be.

A thin fissure that is constantly pulled on, widened, every time he reaches for that power deep inside of him.

At first, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even begin to imagine a life, his life, without plunging his hands into that clear-water stream of his own birthright.

He’d told Rhy; Rhy, who knows a thing or two about wounds that do not heal, and wounds that heal too fast and wounds that take too long to heal.

Rhy, whose heart is only starting to heal now, after it has been shattered three years ago when it had lost Alucard Emery to the sea and the hatred of an old man. That has been stabbed and pulled out of his chest and then plugged in again by Kell’s own bloodied hands.

By the same magic that is now no longer available for Kell without hurting the both of them.

It’s fitting, he thinks, now.

It’s a reminder that his life still isn’t his own, not entirely, and that everything he does, every minor act, something as natural as breathing, as pulling magic out of his blood, is still something he shares with another person. Even when this person is far, far away. Sometimes he’s grateful for this reminder. It’s so easy to forget when you’re so far from home.

It’s punishment, he thinks, in the dark hours of the night, when the ship’s rocking isn’t enough to pull him to sleep. The impressions of the day not strong enough to put out the light of his conscience. When Lila’s warmth against his skin isn’t sufficient to cast away this new coldness that is creeping up his neck whenever he is not careful enough.

Punishment for the daring act of destroying a natural given balance in the world.

It’s been three weeks and he still hasn’t told her.

At this point, he himself doesn’t know why. But every time he opens his mouth to speak, he finds something else to say. Some landmark to point out. Some habit of hers to comment on.

Something else he always wanted to tell her.

It’s new, being able to actually tell her. To not fear that it’d be in vain because she’d just turn and run at the next corner of their way.

But that’s something she’s given up.

Sometimes he wonders whose loss is worse.

Especially when she looks at him with those mismatched eyes, so natural in her face that he sometimes forgets that her gaze hasn’t always been brown-and-black. And smiles.

But after a few days at sea, the breathing gets easier, the weight on his chest slowly lifting, the sadness blowing away in a salty breeze.

It’s hard, grieving when the sun is rising every morning over a new speck of the world, his own world, that he has never seen before.

He likes these moments the most. The calm, quiet hours of dawn. He spends them on deck, his hands on the rail, the old and salty and constantly wet wood under his hands. The spray hitting his face, orange-yellow-red climbing up the horizon, dying the water a darker shade of magic than he’s ever seen.

Warm sunlight on his skin.

Sometimes he counts the miles in his head, then.

2368 miles to London. To Rhy; to Tieren; to Alucard.

3745 miles.

4926 miles.

Just a couple of steps to Lila.

Just a stone’s throw to undiscovered land.

 _As Travars_.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks every new morning with a gratefulness that is almost as heavy as all the other burdens he’s carried around for so long, that his body is made in its entirety for traveling and yet he hasn’t nearly seen enough of all there is to see.

The first time he sets foot on ground he’s never been on before, his heart skips a couple of beats and he thinks that Rhy must feel this, too, must feel the excitement and the rush and the fear.

He almost feels guilty.

The second time, his hear still skips a beat, but the guilt pulls back its claws, slowly, one after the other, as if it is only waiting near by for a chance to wrap its greedy hands around Kell’s neck again.

But the light keeps it at bay, so do the stars and the sea and the grass and the beaches and the cities and the people, and Lila. Always Lila.

Incredible, strong-headed, mischievous Lila who is finally, _finally_ sharing his path.

His hair is growing and his skin is darkening and his smile is widening, and the map in his head is ever-growing, ever-filling, ever-coloring itself in new variations of reflected light.

If this is what freedom feels like, if this is what it _tastes_ like; like dried salt on his lips and foreign food on his tongue and the burning of strong alcohol down his throat; he can understand why Lila’s been running away for so long from all the things that could, _would_ , hold her back.

But Kell’s not running away from anything. He’s running towards them.

Until he’s seen everything.

Because ultimately, he’s running towards London, towards home.

He’s just making a few detours.

 _Anoshe_ , he’s promised.

Freedom, he realizes one sunny morning on deck of the _Night Spire_ , is a decision.

He closes his eyes and calls the wind, the sea, the wood under his palms, the light on his skin, the magic in his blood.

And decides.

(So is healing.)


End file.
